


bright eyes, blue denim

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Hilda is thirsty, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, Zelda in jeans, but aren't we all?, sisters literally doing it for themselves, swingin sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 01:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: No one gambles like Zelda, and Zelda always plays to win.





	bright eyes, blue denim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imustgofirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imustgofirst/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday to my forever-and-ever gal pal, imustgofirst! We have had one heaven of a week (or two) so I haven't had much opportunity to write. Taylor has been begging me for a story featuring Zelda in jeans, and who am I to say no to a beautiful woman?   
> Comments are love -- let me know what you think!  
> (The title is from "Blue Denim" by Stevie Nicks.)

Zelda never takes a bet she isn’t certain she’ll win. She’s a risk-taker, but every risk is carefully calculated.

(Hilda loves watching Zelda at casinos and horse races, has benefitted both from the vision of her sister, wild-eyed and aroused by the thrill of it all, and from putting money on whatever Zelda’s backing. She’d be a fool not to.)

Hilda only ever agrees to a bet to satisfy Zelda’s thirst for coming out the victor. (Hilda never takes a bet if she doesn’t like the terms; she’ll never bet anything she wouldn’t freely give.) 

Ambrose, however, is reckless. Confinement has rankled this once good-natured young man. He is bored, will push buttons just to shake up the morning, will poke and prod at Zelda for his amusement. 

Occasionally, once in every third blue moon, Zelda will lose a bet.

-

Hilda is hazy on the details of what they’d actually put a wager on. She only knows the terms are steep. 

If Ambrose lost, he would have to spend a day in Zelda’s shoes — namely, spending the early morning in quiet prayer, managing the mortuary’s messy finances (a parting gift from Father upon his death), embalming Greendale’s beloved mailman, reading the Satanic Bible.

If Zelda lost, she would be required to spend a day in Ambrose’s shoes -- a day of light labor with a heaping dose of leisure, to “lighten up.”

Each chose the most torturous punishment for the other. 

No one expects Ambrose to win — certainly not Ambrose. 

No one expects Zelda to lose — certainly not Zelda. 

Hilda, Ambrose, and Edward watch a stone-faced Zelda quietly leave the kitchen, breaths collectively held. 

Ambrose sits back in his chair, grins smugly. 

Hilda and Edward exchange loaded glances. It’s Edward who ultimately gives the younger man a conciliatory pat on the back. 

“What?” He looks at Hilda for reassurance and finds only her pitying expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Well...it depends what you think just happened here, love.” 

“I won the bet….”

Hilda and Edward both laugh. 

-

They wait. 

Ambrose reasons that a bet should be fulfilled when it has been lost. He didn’t specify, and Hilda knows this was his fatal flaw. 

He’s been under house arrest for about thirty years; he should know better by now. 

Zelda knows better than to agree to a bet if she isn’t prepared to accept the terms of a potential loss; if she is going to lose, she makes sure that her opponent loses too. 

-

Four days after the bet has been settled, Zelda saunters into the kitchen, and Hilda knows straight away that she should have given the poor boy a warning. 

-

Hilda and Ambrose gape at Zelda when she turns up late to breakfast after Edward has gone to the Academy, unable to reconcile what they know of her with the transformed woman before them. 

When Zelda commits to a challenge, she does not half-arse it. Hilda has always admired that about her, has always appreciated just how ardently she applies herself. Ambrose had challenged her to emulate him, and she has gone all in. 

Her sister, the method actress. 

It’s awe-inspiring the way Zelda can don a disguise, the way she slips into it so seamlessly that anyone who didn’t know her would assume she’s been a free-loving hippie her entire life. 

It’s not just the aesthetic that she dons but also his Spellman swagger, all swaying hips and charming grin and effortless sexiness. 

Zelda is sexy, yes -- but beyond her natural stunning beauty is a carefully crafted _Look_ from head to toe, evoking a certain sultry Hollywood glamour and a repressed, classic elegance. Ambrose makes no particular effort to accentuate his natural good looks, just leans into his flirtatious charm and wears whatever tickles his fancy because, well, how else is the lad to get his kicks? 

It’s comical, to be truthful, how both Hilda and Ambrose give Zelda the full exaggerated once-over. Hilda starts with her hair. It is unpinned and tousled, like she’d been running through the wind, or fucking all night. 

Hilda gulps, has to blink to buy herself a split second before she can take in the rest of her sister. 

She wears not a speck of makeup, and her pale ivory skin glows, and oh, Hilda can see a few of her favorite freckles dusting her sister’s nose that are typically covered in powder. Her blue-green eyes shine; with what, Hilda can’t quite tell. There is a devious edge to her soft features. It’s so Zelda and oh, praise Satan, Hilda’s heart aches with love for her even now, even when she’s about to ruin their nephew’s morning. 

The blouse she wears belongs to Ambrose -- she wouldn’t dare spend money on synthetics, would never willingly buy a sheer polyester blouse that billows and drapes rather than clings and accentuates. 

However. 

Like Ambrose, Zelda is also bare-chested beneath the paisley fabric in shades of green. Hilda’s cheeks flush with color upon seeing her sister’s tits on display, can easily see her pale pink nipples straining beneath the whisper of fabric. Ambrose stares at the ceiling. 

Oh, and while Hilda greedily drinks in the swell of her sister’s perfect, round breasts, she loses her breath entirely when she processes the fact that Zelda is wearing jeans. 

Zelda is beautiful in anything she wears, but the blue denim hugging the lithe curves of her shapely thighs leaves Hilda starry-eyed and breathless. She’s been trying to get her sister into jeans for decades (mainly so she can get Zelda right back out of them), but the reality is so much more satisfying than she could have ever hoped to imagine. 

And she has certainly applied herself to imagining.

Her feet, peeking from beneath flared bottoms, are bare, toenails blood red. 

Both sister and nephew are aware of the true winner here. 

-

“The 60’s look good on you, Auntie,” Ambrose compliments. Hilda can’t blame him for trying his luck, but Zelda has always been immune to dimpled, sickly-sweet charm. 

Zelda reaches forward, plucks a cherry from the bowl at the center of the table, and pops it into her mouth. “Every decade looks good on me.” 

As if they didn’t already know. 

Zelda leans back in her chair, draping an arm carelessly along the high back. “What is everyone doing today?” 

Casual Zelda is even more sinister than her typical rigid, unyielding self. 

Hilda would be nervous if she weren’t so focused on how sexy her sister looks. “It’s Thursday, so it’s errand day for me.” 

“Thursday means my day off,” Ambrose reminds carefully. 

“Oh, is it?” Zelda says slowly. She frowns, tsks. “How unfortunate. As I will be otherwise engaged today, I’m afraid you’ll need to see to the remains of poor Mrs. Anderson.” 

Hilda winces as she watches the color drain from his face. 

All four Spellmans had been present when Mrs. Anderson had been wheeled into the mortuary. 

Hilda is still trying to do something about the smell in the foyer. 

“I do hope that we haven’t run out of Vick’s.” 

Hilda winces again. “We have, I’m afraid. I’ve got some candles that might help with the, um, odor.” 

Ambrose’s frown deepens. “Patchouli-scented decomposition? I’ll pass, Auntie.” 

Zelda’s smirk is blindingly smug. “I’d offer to help, but I believe that would violate the terms of our bet, and I wouldn’t want to be considered a poor sport.”

Hilda snorts into her cup of tea. 

Ambrose, bless his heart, has at least enough sense to keep his mouth shut. “Well then, I suppose I’d better get my smock,” he says, pushing himself up from his seat at the table. He gives an exaggerated, begrudgingly respectful bow to Zelda. “Well-played, Auntie.” 

No one gambles like Zelda, and Zelda _always_ plays to win. 

\- 

Zelda stands, drawing her arms over her head as she stretches. Her blouse rides up, exposing a sliver of pale stomach, and Hilda bites her lip. She watches her sister trail around the kitchen, eyes fastened to the way the globes of her ass shift beneath denim. 

Hilda’s mouth waters. 

As Zelda takes her seat, she reaches into her billowy sleeve, pulling out a small baggie. Hilda knows instantly what it is but enjoys watching as Zelda shakes the bag of marijuana like it’s a hard-won prize. “What do you say, sister? Shall we smoke a little of our nephew’s marijuana and raid his stash of pornography?”

How can Hilda possibly begin to tell Zelda that her ass in tight denim is all the visual stimulation she needs? 

“I really do have those errands to run…” 

Zelda raises an eyebrow. “Are you truly choosing grocery shopping over sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll? Don’t be a _prude_ , Hildie.” 

Hilda gives a conspiratorial grin. “Well, when in Rome…” 

“I swear to Satan, Hilda, if you make a joke about blowing up the Vatican -- “ 

Hilda snatches the bag from her sister’s hand, tosses it onto the table. “We don’t need our nephew’s ditch weed, sister, when what I’m growing in the solarium is so much better.” 

Zelda grins, lights another cigarette, and blows a perfect smoke ring. 

Hilda gets to her feet, motivated by the aching pulse between her legs. 

Zelda smirks, victorious.

\- 

Hilda follows her sister up the stairs, trailing two or three steps behind for a better vantage point. She’s not even high yet and she can’t stop staring, can’t take her eyes away from her sister’s exquisite ass. 

She’s got to remember as much of the vision her sister presents in jeans; she knows it’ll likely be another century or two before Zelda deigns to wear them again. 

So lost in thought is Hilda that she doesn’t realize Zelda has stopped until she has walked right into her. 

“See something you like, sister?” Zelda asks, grinning down at her younger sister. 

Hilda nods emphatically. 

-

Zelda rolls a perfect joint. 

Hilda isn’t high yet, but she’s overstimulated. 

Zelda has such skilled fingers. 

Zelda’s breasts are perky and teasing in her nephew’s blouse. 

Zelda is _wearing jeans_. 

“Zelds,” she growls, pushing Zelda back against the mattress. 

\- 

It’s magic, the way this sacred little herb sets all her synapses firing at once. She tingles _everywhere_ , from the ends of her hair to the folds of her vulva to the soles of her feet. She can feel her sex growing swollen and slick and it’s already so heady and delicious. 

Hilda’s pleasure is electric, buzzing through her and culminating in an aching epicenter of need between her legs. It turns her on _so much_ to know that the same pleasure sizzles in Zelda’s veins. 

Zelda sits propped against the headboard of her bed, scanning quickly through a worn copy of _Wanking Warlocks._ She looks unimpressed. Hilda takes another hit, sighing out her exhale of smoke in a wave of pure bliss. 

“Honestly -- with the amount of time Ambrose spends on his masturbatory pursuits, he could _at least_ get better material.” Zelda scrunches her nose in distaste and tosses the magazine aside, instead focusing on the heavy pull of the joint. 

As Zelda inhales, her chest expands, and Hilda is lost in a wave of pulsating need as she watches those rigid nipples strain. 

Zelda picks up another magazine, props it open on her stomach, obstructing Hilda’s view of her perfect tits.

Hilda’s stomach rumbles. 

The arousal will keep, and she rolls off the bed in search of a snack.

-

Somewhere between Hilda’s pursuit of a treat and returning, triumphant, with a small bag of caramels, Zelda has disposed of her stolen blouse and has rolled onto her stomach. She has propped another magazine -- this one appearing to featuring only witches in twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, and moresomes -- onto a pillow and is flipping lazily through the pages, perusing each tableau of entwined limbs, pouting mouths, and abundant breasts with mild curiosity. 

Hilda doesn’t give a bloody damn about the pornography. All she hungers for is Zelda, to lick the curve of her spine, to nibble at the swell of her hip just above the low rise of her jeans, to sink her teeth into that glorious ass. 

She reaches beneath her flowing, flowery dress, yanking sodden knickers down to her ankles. She steadies herself with a bracing hand on the side of the bed as she kicks them away, whispering a choked, “Zelds.” 

Zelda’s lips curl around the joint, pulling in another earthy swallow of heady smoke. “Look at the size of these, ” Zelda marvels, turning the periodical until the centerfold opens. “How _does_ she stay upright?” 

Hilda rolls her eyes, crawls unsteadily back onto the bed. She wiggles herself between her sister’s parted knees, reaching out to palm handfuls of Zelda’s backside. The coarse scratch of denim against her hands has Hilda reeling and she squeezes her fingers. 

“Mmm…” Zelda groans, grinding her hips down against the mattress as she lets the magazine flutter to the floor.

Cannabis has always made Hilda feel a little wanton, a little lewd, a little slutty. She straddles her sister’s thigh, hiking up her dress and parting the folds of her glistening sex until her lower lips kiss that firm, jean-clad thigh. 

Oh, there is no doubt in Hilda’s mind that _she_ is the real winner, because she is grinding her clit in a frantic rhythm and she is gripping Zelda’s hip with one hand and yanking on her copper hair with the other. 

Hilda sinks her teeth into Zelda’s freckled shoulder as she comes and comes and comes, pulsing like so many stars. 

-

Hilda needs a moment to recover. The pot has made her slow and dazed but she fights through it, knowing the prize at the other end is so much sweeter than drug-hazed afterglow. 

The wet patch on denim is immensely satisfying, but she must focus. Zelda pushes up, allowing Hilda to slide beneath and pop the button, pull down the zipper. She peels off that denim like it’s a second skin. The tight, unforgiving fabric leaves behind red indentations in that pale, milky flesh. 

Zelda never draws out her own pleasure, usually preferring to rush to the finish line in favor of satisfying both a greedy impatience as well as a drive to get back to her largely self-imposed responsibilities. Mmm, but now Zelda takes her time riding Hilda’s mouth, lazily rolling her hips until she’s worked up a sweat and Hilda’s tongue has begun to ache. She edges twice, gets herself right to the knife-edge, teeters in a liminal space until her climax finally eclipses them all. 

-

In the end, it’s apparent that they all win, in a way. 

Zelda got a day’s hard work out of Ambrose and she had lightened up considerably by the time dinner had rolled around. Zelda had been so amiable that she had shared what remained of the joint with him on the porch after supper. 

Ambrose got a much chiller, much more relaxed Auntie Zee, which made for a much more pleasant house arrest -- at least for an evening. 

Hilda, well. 

Hilda still reckons she’s the _real_ winner. 

She plans to have those jeans bronzed. 

\---


End file.
